


Breakfast At Tiffany's AU (Bandom)

by hotraisins



Category: Bandom, Cobra Starship, Fall Out Boy, Panic! at the Disco, Paramore, The Academy Is..., Twenty One Pilots
Genre: Alcohol, Breakfast at Tiffany's AU, Drug Use, Multi, Ryden
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-14
Updated: 2016-03-04
Packaged: 2018-04-20 19:47:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4800050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hotraisins/pseuds/hotraisins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ryan Ross remembers his time with Brendon Urie. The Breakfast At Tiffany's AU you never knew you needed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

I always manage to end up in the same places. I’m a wanderer who walks only in circles, always ending up right where I began. Today my traveler’s heart has brought me back to New York, to first brownstone apartment. It wasn’t charming, not at all; the walls were an uncomfortable shade of brown and it smelled of factory smoke and too many people, but it was a place of my own and I called it home with a smile on my face. I suppose it’s always been a sentimental place to me since it was where I decided I wanted my writing career to get serious; I had been traveling as a nobody since I was fresh out of school and I got this notion that maybe it was time to settle down; not with a woman, or a man, or anyone, but rather a job. I walked the dirty, crowded streets daily and searched for inspiration in every empty alley and every pair of detached eyes of the strangers on the street. 

I smile as I recall the old furniture that once inhabited that cramped apartment; the wooden end tables and the tattered suede armchair I practically lived in were my favorite pieces of décor. I’d gotten all of it from either my parents or the previous tenant; money wasn’t exactly abundant then. All my coffee cups were mismatched and more often than not filled with brandy rather than coffee, and none of my towels were soft as one would care for. I had to go to the laundromat every Thursday to wash my clothes, which consisted of a couple of tweed suits, around six white collared shirts, and three pairs of black slacks. It wasn’t much, but it was mine, and I loved it more than anything else in my world at the time. Not because it was something I’d managed to get with my own cash; that couldn’t have affected me less. It was because it was my first taste of freedom, of not having to crash on someone’s couch or sleep in a hotel I couldn’t afford. Then again, there was more than one instance where I did manage to end up on a couch that wasn’t my own--although it could have been, easily. 

The couch belonged to Brendon Urie--the man who lived in the same apartment building as I, directly below me. We forged a strong friendship, although I wished it could have done what friendship does best and blossomed into a relationship. He thought otherwise, however; his type always does. 

We had many an escapade during our time together. We’d travel to the bar down the street, six or seven times a day. It wasn’t to get drunk. Well, not exclusively. Brendon didn’t have a phone of his own in his apartment so he would spare a few dimes to use the bar’s. The old barkeep (I think his name was Dallon. Rumor has it he still runs the place.) was fascinated by Brendon; naturally, he’d let the bum use his phone as often as he liked and for free, despite Brendon’s insistence on paying at least a dime per call. Dallon made good money with Brendon around.

The phone rings. It surprises me, considering I haven’t told anyone where I’m going nor where I’m at. I answer; Dallon’s voice, older than I last heard it, asks me to come down to the bar. I agree, telling myself it’s to see Dallon, but I know it’s mainly because I feel like Dallon wouldn’t bother calling if it wasn’t important; we’re not particularly friendly with each other. It’s not that Dallon is unpleasant; he’s an older man, unmarried, very hard to get through to. He’s a man of few pleasures, one of them being Brendon, the others consisting of sports, oddly colored dogs, and musicals. He was a strange man. 

I hail a cab and ride in the back, the old, Arabic man silently taking the turns and making me wish I had walked; it’s terribly awkward to ride in a silent cab. When the vehicle stops, I have to restrain myself from breathing a sigh of relief. The old bar looks as welcoming as always. I say that sarcastically; it’s the most foreboding place I’ve seen, and in a city like New York, that’s a true feat.

I push the heavy wooden door open and am pleasantly surprised to see the bar hasn’t changed a bit. The old barstools are still covered with the same worn terrycloth, the lights flickering to their death and leaving the entire venue with a mysterious, dark aura. It still reeks of elderly men and their woes. I step up to the bar, where Dallon looks at me over a glass he’s cleaning with a threadbare dishrag. No smile, not even a nod in acknowledgement. Just that one glance to make up for the years and years I haven’t set foot in this dusty old tavern. 

“You know I wouldn’t call for you unless I had important news,” he says, his voice more gruff than I recall. I suppose time does that to people. I nod. Dallon clears his throat and hands me a domestic beer. He seems to have forgotten my distaste for the beverage. I open it and take a draught, noting the taste one would compare to cat piss. My mind wanders to the news he must have in store; could it be about Brendon? I chase the thoughts away. No, not Brendon. That ended long ago. 

“What’s your news, then?” I ask, growing impatient. “Is it about Brendon?” If it is about Brendon, I desperately want to know--and have a right to. Dallon’s seemingly permanently red face goes even more crimson. Damn barkeep always had his eye on the boy. Dallon takes a breath and I know I’m in for an earful. Dallon never pauses to take a breath unless it’s something long-winded. He doesn’t talk enough for that.

“It’s somewhat about Brendon,” he says, and the attempt to mask the inflection that gives away a crush is pitiful. I force myself past that and try to listen to him, taking another sip of the beer. Still tastes like piss. “Do you remember a man by the name of Joshua Dun?” 

I do, actually. Dun was a photographer in my and Brendon’s apartment building. Not a particularly nice man; he was always too focused on his work to have time for friendly conversation. I only ever spoke to him on a few occasions; not the kind of company I choose to keep. “Go on,” I say, lazily lifting the green bottle to my lips.

“Well, he came in here just the other night.” How queer. “Said he’d spent the past couple years in Africa. Had no idea he had that kind of money.” Funny how it costs more money to get to Africa than to live there. Dun didn’t need much; he probably was sitting on a couple grand and thought, to hell with it. Good photo ops in Africa, I suppose. “Gave me this.” Dallon hands over an envelope, bigger than regulation size. I open it slowly. There are three photographs in the case; they’re all the same, give or take. The angle is different on each. Captured onto the glossy paper is an image of an African man, a coy smile playing on his lips. He’s wearing a skirt. In his hands he holds an intricately carved wooden likeness of Brendon Urie; I would recognize the jawline, the broad lips stretched into a contagious smile, the soulfulness of the eyes, downturned and droopy, and the way even the wooden forgery still conveys the piercing quality of his gaze stuns me. Even his hair, short and flamboyantly quaffed, is carved into perfection. My heart aches at the sight. I look closer and notice the wooden figure’s even got his damn freckles right, the ones you could only see when he fell asleep nestled into your side, and I wonder how this man got the privilege of seeing those freckles. I’ve never wanted to be an African so badly in my life. 

Dallon clears his throat again. “Dun came in here, looking like a bat out of hell, his eyes wide and that dopey grin of his stretched across his face. Thought he’d won the lottery. He comes up to me, and he says, ‘Dallon, you’ll never guess what I’ve just seen.’ I asked ‘What?’ and he told me what happened. Seems like old Josh was walking down the streets of some African village when he saw this man carving monkeys onto walking sticks. Asked if he could see more of his carvings, and the man showed him that one of Brendon. You should’ve seen Dun’s eyes glaze over when he told me this, like he’d been dreaming. Said he asked the whittler if he could have it, and the African grabbed his...you know...and told him no. Dun looked half scandalized. Told me he offered the African all the money in his pockets for that head, but he wouldn’t give it up. I asked if the African had told Dun how he’d come across Brendon; evidently there was a troupe of three white people on horseback riding through the wilds of Africa. Two of the three men had a fever and had to be quarantined, but Brendon was fine. He’s always been a tough kid. Said the African told him he and Brendon had really hit it off.” How many times is this man going to say that name? As much as he likes, I suppose; the word feels dusty in everyone’s mouth nowadays. Good to get it out every now and then. Can’t have cobwebs in our throats. “Anyway, rumor says that Brendon and the African really hit off, shared a mat or some business. I don’t believe that for a second.” Dallon’s mind has immediately jumped to sex. Of course. He looks like he wouldn’t know a thing about “sharing mats”, but truthfully the man doesn’t know sin from supper. He’s as bad as...well, he’s as bad as me. “Then, after that, he said the African told him Brendon just ran off...just like that. Sounds a lot like him, doesn’t it?” Dallon chuckled to himself. “Anyway, Dun said the African had no idea where he went, so he went chasing after Brendon all through Africa. It’s a bit anti-climactic, ‘specially as he didn’t find Brendon, but it’s the only news of Brendon I’ve heard in awhile. Well, the only definite news, anyhow.” Dallon wistfully cleans a glass. “Bet he’s rich now. You gotta be rich to be in a place like Africa.” Not the people there. I couldn’t imagine a single reason I’d want to go there. All there is to do is watch people struggle. But then again, Brendon’s always been a queer one. I smile at Dallon and finish off the beer.

I don’t believe any of this. Knowing Brendon, he’s probably dead, or in a padded cell, or married. God, I hope he’s not married. If he is he’s hiding out in this very damn city, right under my ignorant nose. Always a tease. Right where I can’t have him. I tell Dallon this--all except the more emotion-laden bits. That, I’m keeping to myself. Dallon shrugs.

“I doubt that. Had he been in this city I know I’d’ve seen him around. I go on walks, you know. Seen a lot of stuff you wouldn’t think about. See him in a lot of things; the young men walking home from the shops, some of the girls. God, he had a figure like a girl.” Dallon’s a horny old man. I realize this now. “Guess you could say I’ve been searching for him for a decade now.”

“You were in love with him,” I accuse, but honestly, who wasn’t? His wide, girlish hips, his loud laugh, his broad, toothy smile...God, he was beautiful.

“I was.” I don’t expect Dallon to have given in so easily. “I never once dreamt of touching him, though. You can love someone without wanting to touch them all the time.” His brashness surprises me, my eyebrows shooting up to my hairline. Dallon sighs. “Brendon was a stranger, one I particularly liked. Nothing predatory about it.” 

“I see,” I say flatly, feeling like I haven’t contributed to the conversation at all. Typical.

“That’s not on the house, by the way.” He motions to the empty beer bottle. I nod and fish out a wad of bills, handing them to Dallon. I feel like ten dollars is plenty for a bottle of what I’m convinced is piss. 

“Do you believe that? That Brendon’s in Africa?” Dallon asks, a childlike glimmer of hope in his voice.

I shake my head. “Doesn’t matter. He’s gone, anyway. None of our business what he does anymore.”

A couple of men walk into the bar and I decide it’s time to go. They’re younger; it must be getting a bit later. I wave at Dallon out of obligation and habit rather than friendliness. The door swings closed behind me, a loud wooden thunk sending me out. I light a cigarette and head back down to the apartments, skipping the cab this time. I need to think some on what I’ve just been told.

I end up doing exactly the opposite of thinking; instead, I observe. The birds, the plants, the new fashions on the streets. I get to the strip of road with the apartment building and I look through the names on the sides of the mailboxes. The only name I recognize is that of Haley Williams. I sigh as I realize I’m repeating, more or less, my first day in New York, except now I don’t see Brendon’s mailbox, and it’s not going to end in us bumping into each other, his dark brown eyes, sparkling and deep, landing on my own flat, soulless eyes. How funny it is, I think, that a mailbox can lead you to your own heartbreak in the end.


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one took so long!!

A week. I’d gone a full week without knowing of his existence. I suppose lots of people have gone a week without knowing of someone else’s existence; some of my married friends told me they met each other after years of living in the same city. I couldn’t imagine not knowing Brendon Urie was a living, breathing, human being for so many years. He’s too much to ignore; he’s a frozen lake, or the song that repeats itself a million times in your own ears after just a second of hearing it.

It was the mailbox that introduced us. I’d been walking home from God knows where; my early days in New York were mainly a collection of aimless walks, attempting to suck all of the inspiration out of the city. I was young then. I didn’t know inspiration lay in the mind, not the eye. Upon meeting Brendon, however, I learned. It was possibly the most important lesson of my life.

Anyway, I was walking to my apartment when I caught a glimpse of his name card on the mailbox. _Mr. Brendon Urie; traveling_. For some reason the name stuck; it was melodic somehow, flowing easily and syllabically pleasing. Even then, I had only been acquainted with the name. The person would come later, early in the morning. Most wouldn’t have considered it to have been morning; it was just after midnight, and the sky was still that peculiar shade of blue one only becomes accustomed with during bouts of insomnia. I was on good terms with that color. We often had tea together, on the terrace of my apartment.

The day I caught a first glimpse of Brendon was during an interesting situation, to say the least. He had evidently forgotten his keys; Joshua Dun informed me (and half the building’s tenants) of this in a loud, exhausted voice. I still recall the exchange even today, years later.

“Mr. Urie, I can’t do this anymore. I have a job, you know. I need to rest.” He sounded like a parent scolding their child. Brendon’s voice sounded like he was smirking. 

“But Mr. Dun,” he began, “if you let me in just this once, maybe I’ll let you take those...pictures...we’ve been talking about.” Brendon’s voice held the promise that these pictures were less than innocent. I made the assumption then that this Brendon Urie was a less than innocent person, despite his boyish charms. I couldn’t directly pin his age, since he looked older than a boy but not quite as old as a man. Fresh out of high school, maybe. 

I stood behind the doorframe, trying to maintain invisibility. Brendon was a young man of shorter stature; I would estimate he stood at around five-foot-eight or so. His body was built leanly, his youthful silhouette paired with the obvious muscularity playing at the assumption he had played a sport or two in high school. His face held a boyish charm; wide, dark brown eyes, just slightly downturned and holding emotion locked away deep within them. A story, maybe a secret or two, lurked within those endless brown eyes. His mouth was large, the lips plump and very pink, a very feminine quality I’m sure many of his suitors appreciated. His nose was straight and Roman-esque with a broad bridge, and a smattering of freckles were painted along his face, under his eyes and dancing on his cheekbones. His jawline was strong, sharp, distinctive, followed by a near childish blush; it was no wonder the man caught so much attention. He wore well-fitting tweed slacks, black and heather grey, with a flared blazer mirroring the greys in the pants. His tie was loosened, most likely by the man accompanying him, who didn’t hold a candle to Brendon’s beauty. He was probably nothing more than a client. I felt less than moral for assuming Brendon was in such a business, but he was young, and quite beautiful, and quite frankly that is the employment route I would follow if I were so endowed.

As I had been fancifully examining Brendon’s appearance, Mr. Dun and the beautiful boy in question had continued their argument; it seemed Brendon was winning, as Dun had developed a slight pinkening of the cheeks, and the corners of his eyes were wrinkled in a smile. I had never seen such an emotion on him, and I have to say, it wasn’t attractive. I suppose that is the way of familiarity, I suppose; once one becomes accustomed to the status quo, a change of any variation is unappealing.

The client, or whomever I am assuming is a client, was a plump, rather piggish man, with greasy, unevenly parted black hair and eyes such a flat black color it was impossible to distinct iris from pupil. Certainly he must be a client, or Mr. Urie must have tragically low standards; but perhaps this pig of a man had lots of money, and that’s what was so attractive in Brendon’s eyes. The man kissed Brendon’s neck with an almost distasteful amount of lust, an action which Brendon himself did not seem to notice; he simply waved away the swine-like human like a fly. 

“Thank you for walking me home, Wade.” This was only the second time I’d heard Brendon’s voice but it was clear to me that he was music personified. The way his voice was low, but not low enough to be distinctly manly, had something melodic about it. 

“It’’s Brent, baby.” The way this man had called Brendon ‘baby’ like it was second nature didn’t sit with me well for whatever reason. I couldn’t help but crack a smile as Brendon was corrected; this statement alone told me that this odd couple wasn’t a couple at all, which pleased me much more than it should have. “Brendon, baby, I picked up your bill at the restaurant! Not only yours, but your five friends’ bills, too! And I had never even seen them a day in my life!” There he went again; the pet name suited Brendon, but the way this man, Brent, spoke the word, he made it seem tainted. “I think that counts as somethin’, right, baby? You should like me!” 

Brendon, quite humorously, simply ignored the buffoon of a man and quietly walked into his apartment, or what I assumed to be his apartment, shutting the door and locking it with a resounding “click”. I thought this strange considering most doors don’t audibly lock, and even if some do, it isn’t audible from the considerable distance at which I was standing. 

It was clear that Brent did not want to take no for an answer; much to my embarrassment, he attempted to kick the door down. What a gentleman, I thought to myself. Brendon sure is lucky to have such a prince pursuing him. I couldn’t help but smirk to myself as I witnessed the rather large-statured Brent tumble backwards down the stairs when his efforts to kick in the door failed. He made quite a noise, bumping and banging down the stairs loud enough to wake the entire building; my embarrassment only furthered for this poor man but I couldn’t stifle the tiniest strain of smug pleasure that came with watching the fool turn end over end down the long staircase he had previously summitted. 

Brendon’s carefully groomed head peaked out from behind the door of his apartment, roused by the commotion. Brent, now in a heap at the foot of the steps, must have misread this action as interest in him, because not a second after he caught a glimpse of the beautiful boy, he shouted back up the stairs, “Oh, baby, I knew you’d come around!” Brendon laughed, a peaceful, tinkling sound, much like windchimes. How could one person have so much beauty within them? He quite frankly dazzled me. 

“Oh, Mr. _Wil_ son, the next time an escort asks for gas money... _don’t_ give him a _dollar_!” Brendon called down the stairs, causing Brent’s cheeks to blush bright pink (which, in all blatancy, was not a becoming color on someone so callous). His door slammed shut with the same resounding noise, the click of that peculiar lock soon following.

I wasn’t entirely sure what it was about him, but I needed to know him more. I wasn’t about to let such a specimen slip through my fingers like sand. It’s not that I wanted something from him, like Mr. Wilson had so eloquently expressed; he simply intrigued me, the way a new insect or previously unseen species of bird intrigues a scientist. His usage of the more polite term gave away my suspicions that he was in fact in the business, unsurprising to me. Still, despite my knowledge of his immoral occupation, I wanted nothing more than to know him; I wanted to follow him into that apartment and dissect him conversationally. I wanted to pick him apart and see exactly what in the world combined to make up the godly human being that is Brendon Urie. 

What I didn’t know is that, in a year’s time, this angelic human being would become one of the best-used subjects of my thousands of short novels, poems, and even a memoir, of sorts. He would stay on my mind for years after; still today he haunts my dreams and conversely keeps me awake at night. He’s in my veins; and yet, it still remains mysterious to me how I never once desired for him to become mine--not foremostly, at least. I simply was fascinated by him. 

It is a firm belief of mine that had the following events not occurred that Brendon Urie and I would never have developed the friendship we did; we had no reason for our communication despite these little incidents, and looking back, I suppose perhaps Mr. Urie chose to initiate these conversations with the intent of forging some kind of relationship.I would never confess to this thought in the company of Brendon himself. I think them rather selfish, and who am I to assume his intentions?

**Author's Note:**

> none of this happened. I don't own the original story or the characters.


End file.
